She found Mrs. Campbell, a woman with fifty years in her dish and a surprisingly youthful complexion despite her graying hair, on her knees in the snow in front of Dr. Gammon’s house. She wailed, tears streaming down her face, likely to freeze there. Katherine’s breath fogged in front of her face. She elbowed her way past the busybodies clustered around the scene.
Heedless to the cold, she dropped to her knees in front of the housekeeper and forced Mrs. Campbell to look at her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Dr. G-Gammon. He’s de-dead!”
Katherine’s blood turned to ice. Her breath froze halfway out of her throat. “Where?”
She barely heard her own voice over the thunder of her pulse in her ears.
“His study.”
Katherine abandoned the woman to the charity of the gathering neighbors and bolted inside the house. The front door was ajar, gaping a morbid invitation. Dr. Gammon couldn’t be dead. She’d spoken to him only last night! Mrs. Campbell might be mistaken. He was old; perhaps he was simply in distress. Katherine might be able to help or to save him…
Her snowy shoes slipped on the stairs as she scrambled to the top, where the study was located. Memories haunted her as she careened to a stop in front of the door, her heels bunching up the runner. He must still be alive. Only yesterday, he’d found a pill in here for Emma, to cure her. Katherine swallowed thickly, pushing the door open. For a moment, she couldn’t move.
Dr. Gammon, dressed in the same house clothes he’d worn yesterday when she’d visited, slumped peacefully in an armchair next to the unlit hearth. His study was untouched. A tumbler with a ring of amber liquid in the bottom rested on the table next to him. A few crumbs littered his shirtfront, along with the dried smudge of marmalade next to his mouth.
He must be sleeping. He couldn’t be dead. Gathering her courage, she crossed the room in three short strides and touched his shoulder. No response. Instead, her fingers met an unnatural stiffness. She touched her hand to his neck, his skin cold and clammy. She couldn’t find a heartbeat. Tears gathered in her eyes as she snatched her hand back.
“No.” He was dead.
Katherine blinked hard against the sting in her eyes and turned away. Her eyes flitted over the tumbler, the crumbs, and his hands folded in his lap. There was no plate.
Why, if he was in the midst of eating his snack, was there no plate?
You’re fixating. Katherine ignored the small, suspicious voice in her head. Of their own accord, her feet carried her out of the room where her friend had died. Automatically, she roamed the house toward her usual entrance and exit, the kitchen.
Everything was the same as when she had left, save for one resounding difference. She found no dishes here, either. What had happened to them? If Dr. Gammon had washed them, he would have left them near the door as before. And what of the soiled brandy glass?
Her stomach tied itself into convoluted knots. Had someone else visited last night? Emma would have barked… Unless she’d been too sick. Then again, she had barked only this morning, but that had been less than an hour ago. For Dr. Gammon to be so stiff, he must have been dead for far longer. Your friend is dead. Katherine struggled to breathe evenly. She had visited dozens of murder scenes, but never of someone she knew so personally.
Was this the scene of a murder?
No, not dear Dr. Gammon. Who would want him dead? He was such a sweet old man, if a bit eccentric. No, Mrs. Campbell was outside. She must have put away the dishes before finding him. Katherine turned toward Mrs. Campbell’s distant wailing, which was mixed with intermittent sobs. She didn’t sound coherent, not coherent enough to answer Katherine’s questions.
But Katherine must find the answers. She hadn’t known Dr. Gammon long, but he had become a fixture in her new life. She’d visited with him even when Emma wasn’t ailing. To have him so suddenly removed from her life…
She stopped short as a figure barred her path into the corridor. The man, whose face and clothes were in shadow, stood nearly as tall as Katherine, and he had a physique that was undoubtedly accustomed to exercise. Katherine’s heartbeat quickened, and she groped behind her for the latch to the garden door.
“Who are you?”
Katherine swallowed hard. “Who are you?” She didn’t recognize his voice.
“Constable Gregson. I’m here from Bow Street.”
Her numb fingers slipped from the latch to fall to her side. “From Bow Street? Is Lyle with you—Lyle Murphy?”
“No.” He paused, shifting his weight as if he were uncomfortable. His voice had lost some of his edge when he added, “I’ll ask you again. Who are you, and why are you here?”
She drew herself up but didn’t move away from the door. “I am Lady Katherine Irvine, a friend and neighbor of Dr. Gammon. I came when I heard Mrs. Campbell’s scream.”
“You did not find the body?” From his clipped words, he didn’t give a whit for her family or their title.
Katherine swallowed and shook her head.
“Then hurry along to your house. We’ll send someone later to hear what else you have to say on the matter. Perhaps even Murphy, if it warrants his attention.”
Katherine held her breath and his gaze for a moment longer before she capitulated. She didn’t want to stand in the way of Bow Street, especially not when they sought the truth as did she. With the shock, she couldn’t think straight. After all, the man she had visited only last night was now dead.
Without another word, she squeezed past him into the narrow corridor leading to the front of the house. She exited into the brisk winter air and elbowed her way through the crowd of neighbors now being held back by other constables. As she managed to push into the open air, she gulped for breath.
Lord Annandale’s carriage stopped in front of her house. The first man to exit was not the marquess, but Captain Dorian Wayland, a close friend of Lord Annandale’s. An obscenely tall man with a military build, Wayland was easy to pick out of any crowd. Although the sight of him usually left her with a sense of annoyance, today an uncharacteristic relief washed through her.
Whatever else Wayland was, he was a skilled detective. And, given the spiral of her thoughts, she could use another perspective before she plunged headlong into chaos—or an unexpected murder investigation.
Chapter Three
Prudence Burwick, a woman nearly as tall as Katherine and built solidly, made no attempt to hide her curiosity. As she descended from the carriage, she craned her neck to peer between the two gargantuan men flanking her. “What’s happening down the street? Is there a fire?”
Katherine shook her head. Her teeth chattered, and she couldn’t seem to force out a word. Lord Annandale had taken his fiancée’s lead and frowned, peering in the direction of the raucous gathering. Wayland, positioned closer to Katherine, noticed her state first.
“You aren’t dressed to be out of doors. Katherine, where are your gloves?”
When he gathered her hands in his, cupping them between his leather gloves, she should have pulled away. But the heat of his body seeped through and into her quivering flesh. The tips of her fingers tingled, far from a good omen, and the shells of her ears burned.
Pru turned to her then, her frown emphasizing the sharpness of her nose and chin. “Katherine, where is your cloak?”